The Monks at the Ferry

The Rhine ferry at Andernach connects to a ruin called the Devil’s House, shrouded in ominous legends. One night, a ferryman repeatedly encounters mysterious monks seeking passage. Refusing payment, they vanish after each trip. When he challenges a group of monks mid-river, they unleash a storm, assault him, and vanish. Later, he hears of a headless-horse-drawn chariot linked to the Devil’s House.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Supernatural Beings: The ferryman encounters mysterious monks who vanish after each trip, indicating their otherworldly nature.

Magic and Enchantment: The monks’ ability to disappear and summon a storm mid-river suggests the use of supernatural powers.

Sacred Spaces: The proximity to the Convent of St. Thomas and the Devil’s House ties the events to locations of spiritual significance.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

From time immemorial a ferry has existed from Andernach to the opposite side of the Rhine. Formerly it was more in use than at present, there being then a greater intercourse between the two shores of the river, much of which might be traced to the Convent of St. Thomas, once the most important and flourishing nunnery on the river.

Close by this ferry, on the margin of the Rhine, but elevated somewhat above the level of the water, stands a long, roofless, ruinous building, the remains of the castle of Friedrichstein, better known, however, to the peasantry, and to all passengers on the river, as the Devil’s House.

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How it came by this suspicious appellative there are many traditions to explain. Some say that the Prince of Neuwied, who erected it, so ground down his subjects for its construction, that they unanimously gave it that name. Others derive its popular sobriquet from the godless revelries of the same prince within its walls, and the wild deeds of his companions in wickedness; while a third class of local historians insist upon it that the ruin takes its name from the congregation of fiendish shapes which resort there on special occasions, and the riot and rout which they create in the roofless chambers, reeking vaults, and crumbling corridors of the desolate edifice. It is to this ruin, and of the adjacent ferry, that the following legend belongs.

It was in the time when the celebrated Convent of St. Thomas over Andernach existed in its pristine magnificence, that late on an autumnal night the ferryman from that city to the Devil’s House on the other side of the river, who lived on the edge of the bank below the ruins of the ancient palace of the kings of Austrasia, was accosted by a stranger, who desired to be put across just as the man was about to haul up his boat for the day. The stranger seemed to be a monk, for he was closely cowled, and gowned from head to foot in the long, dark, flowing garb of some ascetic order.

“Hilloa! ferry,” he shouted aloud as he approached the shore of the river, “hilloa!”

“Here, ahoy! here, most reverend father!” answered the poor ferryman. “What would ye have with me?”

“I would that you ferry me across the Rhine to yonder shore of the river,” replied the monk. “I come from the Convent of St. Thomas, and I go afar on a weighty mission. Now, be ye quick, my good friend, and run me over.”

“Most willingly, reverend father,” said the ferryman. “Most willingly. Step into my boat, and I’ll put you across the current in a twinkling.”

The dark-looking monk entered the boat, and the ferryman shoved off from the bank. They soon reached the opposite shore. The ferryman, however, had scarce time to give his fare a good-evening ere he disappeared from his sight, in the direction of the Devil’s House. Pondering a little on this strange circumstance, and inwardly thinking that the dark monk might as well have paid him his fare, or, at least, bade him good-night before he took such unceremonious leave, he rowed slowly back across the stream to his abode at Andernach.

“Hilloa! ferry,” once more resounded from the margin of the river as he approached, “hilloa!”

“Here, ahoy!” responded the ferryman, but with some strange sensation of fear. “What would ye?”

He rowed to the shore, but he could see no one for a while, for it was now dark. As he neared the landing-place, however, he became aware of the presence of two monks, garbed exactly like his late passenger, standing together, concealed by the shadow of the massive ruins.

“Here! here!” they cried.

“We would ye would ferry us over to yonder shore of the river,” said the foremost of the twain. “We go afar on a weighty errand from the Convent of St. Thomas, and we must onwards this night. So be up quick, friend, and run us over soon.”

“Step in, then,” said the ferryman, not over courteously, for he remembered the trick played on him by their predecessor.

They entered the boat, and the ferryman put off. Just as the prow of the boat touched the opposite bank of the river, both sprang ashore, and disappeared at once from his view, like him who had gone before them.

“Ah!” said the ferryman, “if they call that doing good, or acting honestly, to cheat a hard-working poor fellow out of the reward of his labour, I do not know what bad means, or what it is to act knavishly.”

He waited a little while to see if they would return to pay him, but finding that they failed to do so, he put across once more to his home at Andernach.

“Hilloa! ferry,” again hailed a voice from the shore to which he was making, “hilloa!”

The ferryman made no reply to this suspicious hail, but pushed off his boat from the landing-place, fully resolved in his own mind to have nothing to do with any more such black cattle that night.

“Hilloa! ferry,” was again repeated in a sterner voice. “Art dead or asleep?”

“Here, ahoy!” cried the ferryman. “What would ye?”

He had thought of passing downwards to the other extremity of the town, and there mooring his barque below the place she usually lay in, lest any other monks might feel disposed to make him their slave without offering any recompense. He had, however, scarcely entertained the idea, when three black-robed men, clothed as the former, in long, flowing garments, but more closely cowled, if possible, than they, stood on the very edge of the stream, and beckoned him to them. It was in vain for him to try to evade them, and as if to render any effort to that effect more nugatory, the moon broke forth from the thick clouds, and lit up the scene all around with a radiance like day.

“Step in, holy fathers! step in! quick!” said he, in a gruff voice, after they had told him the same tale in the very same words as the three others had used who had passed previously.

They entered the boat, and again the ferryman pushed off. They had reached the centre of the stream, when he bethought him that it was then a good time to talk of his fee, and he resolved to have it, if possible, ere they could escape him.

“But what do you mean to give me for my trouble, holy fathers?” he inquired. “Nothing for nothing, ye know.”

“We shall give you all that we have to bestow,” replied one of the monks. “Won’t that suffice?”

“What is that?” asked the ferryman.

“Nothing,” said the monk who had answered him first.

“But our blessing,” interposed the second monk.

“Blessing! bah! That won’t do. I can’t eat blessings!” responded the grumbling ferryman.

“Heaven will pay you,” said the third monk.

“That won’t do either,” answered the enraged ferryman. “I’ll put back again to Andernach!”

“Be it so,” said the monks.

The ferryman put about the head of his boat, and began to row back towards Andernach, as he had threatened. He had, however, scarcely made three strokes of his oars, when a high wind sprang up and the waters began to rise and rage and foam, like the billows of a storm-vexed sea. Soon a hurricane of the most fearful kind followed, and swept over the chafing face of the stream. In his forty years’ experience of the river, the ferryman had never before beheld such a tempest–so dreadful and so sudden. He gave himself up for lost, threw down his oars, and flung himself on his knees, praying to Heaven for mercy. At that moment two of the dark-robed monks seized the oars which he had abandoned, while the third wrenched one of the thwarts of the boat from its place in the centre. All three then began to belabour the wretched man with all their might and main, until at length he lay senseless and without motion at the bottom of the boat. The barque, which was now veered about, bore them rapidly towards their original destination. The only words that passed on the occasion were an exclamation of the first monk who struck the ferryman down.

“Steer your boat aright, friend,” he cried, “if you value your life, and leave off your prating. What have you to do with Heaven, or Heaven with you?”

When the poor ferryman recovered his senses, day had long dawned, and he was lying alone at the bottom of his boat. He found that he had drifted below Hammerstein, close to the shore of the right bank of the river. He could discover no trace of his companions. With much difficulty he rowed up the river, and reached the shore.

He learned afterwards from a gossiping neighbour, that, as the man returned from Neuwied late that night, or rather early the next morning, he met, just emerging from the Devil’s House, a large black chariot running on three huge wheels, drawn by four horses without heads. In that vehicle he saw six monks seated vis-à-vis, apparently enjoying their morning ride. The driver, a curious-looking carl, with a singularly long nose, took, he said, the road along the edge of the river, and continued lashing his three coal-black, headless steeds at a tremendous rate, until a sharp turn hid them from the man’s view.

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The Flaming Castle

An old castle in Tyrol, known for its nightly flames, holds a haunting tale. An elderly woman collecting firewood stumbles upon a grand, ghostly feast but is silenced by a headless soldier. After revealing her experience, she vanishes mysteriously. Years later, a bold knight investigates despite warnings. He confronts a spectral soldier and a black horseman, only to disappear into the castle, never to return.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Supernatural Beings: The narrative features ghostly figures, including a headless soldier and a spectral horseman, interacting with the living.

Hidden or Forbidden Realms: The castle itself serves as a hidden realm, revealing a ghostly feast and supernatural occurrences to those who enter.

Illusion vs. Reality: The story blurs the lines between what is real and what is spectral, as characters witness seemingly tangible events that vanish or lead to their disappearance.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

Upon a high mountain in the Tyrol there stands an old castle, in which there burns a fire every night, and the flashes of that fire are so large that they rise up over the walls, and may be seen far and wide.

It happened once that an old woman in want of firewood was gathering the fallen twigs and branches upon this castle-crowned mountain, and at length arrived at the castle door. To indulge her curiosity she began peering about her, and at last entered, not without difficulty, for it was all in ruins and not easily accessible.

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When she reached the courtyard, there she beheld a goodly company of nobles and ladies seated and feasting at a huge table. There were, likewise, plenty of servants, who waited upon them, changing their plates, handing round the viands, and pouring out wine for the party.

As she thus stood gazing upon them, there came one of the servants, who drew her on one side, and placed a piece of gold in the pocket of her apron, upon which the whole scene vanished in an instant, and the poor frightened old woman was left to find her way back as well as she could. However, she got outside the courtyard, and there stood before her a soldier with a lighted match, whose head was not placed upon his neck, but held by him under his arm. He immediately addressed the old woman, and commanded her not to tell any one what she had seen and heard upon peril of evil befalling her.

At length the woman reached home, full of anguish, still keeping possession of the gold, but telling no one whence she had obtained it. When the magistrates, however, got wind of the affair, she was summoned before them, but she would not speak one word upon the subject, excusing herself by saying that if she uttered one word respecting it great evil would ensue to her. When, however, they pressed her more strictly, she discovered to them all that had happened to her in the Fiery Castle, even to the smallest particular. In an instant, almost before her relation was fully ended, she was carried away, and no one could ever learn whither she fled.

A year or two afterwards, a young nobleman, a knight, and one well experienced in all things, took up his abode in those parts. In order that he might ascertain the issue of this affair, he set out on foot with his servant in the middle of the night on the road to the mountain. With great difficulty they made the ascent, and were on their way warned six times by an unknown voice to desist from their attempt.

They kept on, however, heedless of this caution, and at length reached the door of the castle. There again stood the soldier as a sentinel, and he called out as usual–

“Who goes there?”

The nobleman, who was bold of heart, gave for answer–

“It is I.”

Upon this the spirit inquired further–

“Who art thou?”

This time the nobleman made no answer, but desired his servant to hand him his sword. When this was done, a black horseman came riding out of the castle, against whom the nobleman would have waged battle. The horseman, however, dragged him up upon his horse and rode with him into the courtyard, while the soldier chased the servant down the mountain. The nobleman was never more seen.

Hans Jagenteufel

A 17th-century tale from Dresden recounts a woman who encountered a headless ghost on horseback while collecting acorns. Days later, the spirit, identified as Hans Jagenteufel, appeared again, head in hand. He confessed his wicked life 130 years earlier, ignoring his father’s pleas for mercy toward the poor. As punishment, he was condemned to roam as an unrepentant spirit, warning others to seek forgiveness.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Divine Punishment: Hans Jagenteufel’s restless wandering as a headless ghost serves as retribution for his sinful life, highlighting the consequences of moral transgressions.

Echoes of the Past: Hans Jagenteufel’s appearance after 130 years underscores how past actions can reverberate through time, affecting both the individual and the community.

Supernatural Beings: The story features a ghostly apparition, delving into themes of the supernatural and the existence of entities beyond the natural world.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

It is commonly believed that if any person is guilty of a crime for which he deserves to lose his head, he will, if he escape punishment during his lifetime, be condemned after his death to wander about with his head under his arm.

In the year 1644 a woman of Dresden went out early one Sunday morning into a neighbouring wood to collect acorns. In an open space, at a spot not very far from the place which is called the Lost Water, she heard somebody blow a very strong blast upon a hunting-horn, and immediately afterwards a heavy fall succeeded, as though a large tree had fallen to the ground.

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The woman was greatly alarmed, and concealed her little bag of acorns among the grass. Shortly afterwards the horn was blown a second time, and on looking round she saw a man without a head, dressed in a long grey cloak, and riding upon a grey horse. He was booted and spurred, and had a bugle-horn hanging at his back.

As he rode past her very quietly she regained her courage, went on gathering the acorns, and when evening came returned home undisturbed.

Nine days afterwards, the woman returned to that spot for the purpose of again collecting the acorns, and as she sat down by the Forsterberg, peeling an apple, she heard behind her a voice calling out to her–

“Have you taken a whole sack of acorns and nobody tried to punish you for doing so?”

“No,” said she. “The foresters are very kind to the poor, and they have done nothing to me–the Lord have mercy on my sins!”

With these words she turned about, and there stood he of the grey cloak, but this time he was without his horse, and carried his head, which was covered with curling brown hair, under his arm.

The woman shrank from him in alarm, but the spirit said–

“Ye do well to pray to God to forgive you your sins, it was never my good lot to do so.” Thereupon he related to her how that he had lived about one hundred and thirty years before, and was called Hans Jagenteufel, as his father had been before him, and how his father had often besought him not to be too hard upon poor people, how he had paid no regard to the advice his father had given him, but had passed his time in drinking and carousing, and in all manner of wickedness, for which he was now condemned to wander about the world as an evil spirit.

The Alraun

In Magdeburg folklore, a hideous yet powerful plant, the Alraun or Gallows Mannikin, grows beneath the gallows of executed hereditary thieves. Obtaining it involves a perilous ritual using a fasting black hound. The Alraun grants wealth, protection, and prophecy but requires meticulous care, including monthly wine washing. Ownership passes via ritual burial rites, ensuring its power only benefits the rightful heir.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Magic and Enchantment: The Alraun is a mystical plant believed to grant wealth, protection, and prophetic abilities to its possessor.

Forbidden Knowledge: The process of obtaining the Alraun involves secretive and perilous rituals, highlighting the pursuit of hidden or restricted truths.

Supernatural Beings: The extraction of the Alraun is accompanied by demonic howls and apparitions, indicating interactions with supernatural entities.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

It is a well-known tradition near Magdeburg, that when a man who is a thief by inheritance, that is to say, whose father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him, three generations, have been thieves; or whose mother has committed a theft, or been possessed with an intense longing to steal at the time immediately preceding his birth; it is the tradition that if such a man should be hanged, at the foot of the gallows whereon his last breath was exhaled will spring up a plant of hideous form known as the Alraun or Gallows Mannikin. It is an unsightly object to look at, and has broad, dark green leaves, with a single yellow flower. The plant, however, has great power, and whosoever is its possessor never more knows what it is to want money.

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It is a feat full of the greatest danger to obtain it. If not taken up from the root, clean out of the soil, it is altogether valueless, and he who makes the experiment wantonly risks his life. The moment the earth is struck with the spade, the bitterest cries and shrieks burst forth from it, and while the roots are being laid bare demons are heard to howl in horrid concert. When the preparatory work is done, and when the hand of the daring man is laid on the stem to pluck forth his prize, then is it as if all the fiends of hell were let loose upon him, such shrieking, such howling, such clanging of chains, such crashing of thunder, and such flashing of forked lightning assail him on every side. If his heart fail him but for one moment his life is forfeit. Many a bold heart engaged in this trial has ceased to beat under the fatal tree; many a brave man’s body has been found mangled and torn to pieces on that accursed spot.

There is, however, happily, only one day in the month, the first Friday, on which this plant appears, and on the night of that day only may it be plucked from its hiding-place. The way it is done is this. Whoso seeks to win it fasts all day. At sundown he sets forth on his fearful adventure, taking with him a coal-black hound, which has not a single fleck of white on its whole body, and which he has compelled likewise to fast for four-and-twenty hours previously. At midnight he takes his stand under the gallows, and there stuffs his ears with wool or wax, so that he may hear nothing. As the dread hour arrives, he stoops down and makes three crosses over the Alraun, and then commences to dig for the roots in a perfect circle around it. When he has laid it entirely bare, so that it only holds to the ground by the points of its roots, he calls the hound to him, and ties the plant to its tail. He then shows the dog some meat, which he flings to a short distance from the spot. Ravenous with hunger, the hound springs after it, dragging the plant up by the root, but before he can reach the tempting morsel he is struck dead as by some invisible hand.

The adventurer, who all the while stood by the plant to aid in its uprooting should the strength of the animal prove insufficient, then rushes forward, and, detaching it from the body of the dead hound, grasps it firmly in both hands. He then wraps it up carefully in a silken cloth, first, however, washing it well in red wine, and then bears it homeward. The hound is buried in the spot whence the Alraun has been extracted.

On reaching home the man deposits his treasure in a strong chest, with three locks, and only visits it every first Friday in the month, or, rather, after the new moon. On these occasions he again washes it with red wine, and enfolds it afresh in a clean silken cloth of white and red colours.

If he has any question to ask, or any request to make, he then puts the one or proffers the other. If he wish to know of things in the future, the Alraun will tell him truly, but he will only get one answer in the moon, and nothing else will be done for him by the plant. If he desire to obtain some substantial favour, he has it performed for him on making his request, but then the Alraun will answer no inquiries as to the future until the next day of visitation shall arrive.

Whoso has this wonder of the world in his possession can never take harm from his foes, and never sustain any loss. If he be poor, he at once becomes rich. If his marriage be unblest by offspring, he at once has children.

If a piece of gold be laid beside the Alraun at night, it is found to be doubled in the morning, and so on for any sum whatsoever, but never has it been known to be increased more than two pieces for each one.

On the demise of the owner only a youngest son can inherit the Alraun. To inherit it effectually he must place a loaf of white bread and a piece of money in the coffin of his father, to be buried along with his corpse. If he fail to do so, then is the possession, like many others of great name in the world, of no value to him. Should, however, the youngest son fail before the father, then the Alraun rightfully belongs to the eldest, but he must also place bread and money in the coffin of his brother, as well as in that of his father, to inherit it to any purpose.

The Hunter Hackelnberg and the Tut-Osel

Hackelnberg, the Wild Huntsman, haunts the Hartz mountains and Thuringian forest, often near Dummburg. At night, he hunts spectral beasts with his hounds, his eerie cry, “Hu! hu!” echoing. Few see him, save rare children with spiritual sight. He is joined by Tut-Osel, a banished nun-turned-screech-owl, whose cries harmonize with his. A shepherd once greeted Hackelnberg and was cursed with an unsettling “reward” for his boldness.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Supernatural Beings: The narrative features Hackelnberg, the Wild Huntsman, and Tut-Osel, a nun transformed into a screech-owl, both of whom are spectral entities haunting the forests.

Divine Punishment: Tut-Osel’s transformation into a screech-owl serves as a punishment for her disruptive behavior during her life as a nun, highlighting the consequences of her actions.

Underworld Journey: The eerie nocturnal hunts led by Hackelnberg, accompanied by spectral hounds and the transformed nun, symbolize a connection to the realm of the dead or the supernatural.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

The Wild Huntsman, Hackelnberg, traverses the Hartz mountains and the Thuringian forest, but he seems mostly to prefer the Hakel, from which place he derives his name, and especially the neighbourhood of Dummburg. Ofttimes is he heard at night, in rain and storm, when the moonlight is breaking by fits and starts through the troubled sky, following with his hounds the shadows of the wild beasts he slew in days of yore. His retinue generally proceed from the Dummburg, straight over the Hakel to the now desolate village of Ammendorf.

He has only been seen by a few children, who, having been born on a Sunday, had the power of seeing spirits.

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Sometimes he met them as a lonely huntsman, accompanied by one solitary hound. Sometimes he was seen in a carriage drawn by four horses, and followed by six dogs of the chase. But many have heard the low bellowing of his hounds, and the splashing of his horse’s feet in the swamps of the moor; many have heard his cry of “Hu! hu!” and seen his associate and forerunner–the Tut-Osel, or Tooting Ursula.

Once upon a time three wanderers seated themselves in the neighbourhood of the Dummburg. The night was already far advanced. The moon gleamed faintly through the chasing clouds. All around was still. Suddenly they heard something rush along over their heads. They looked up, and an immense screech-owl flew before them.

“Ha!” cried one of them, “there is the Tut-Osel! Hackelnberg, the Wild Huntsman, is not far off.”

“Let us fly,” exclaimed the second, “before the spirits overtake us.”

“We cannot fly,” said the third; “but you have nothing to fear if you do not irritate him. Lay yourselves down upon your faces when he passes over us. But, remember, you must not think of addressing Hackelnberg, lest he treat you as he treated the shepherd.”

The wanderers laid themselves under the bushes. Presently they heard around them the rushing by, as it were, of a whole pack of hounds, and high in the air above them they heard a hollow sound like that of a hunted beast of the forest, and ever and anon they trembled at hearing the fearful-toned voice of the Wild Huntsman uttering his well-known “Hu! hu!” Two of the wanderers pressed close to the earth, but the third could not resist his inclination to have a peep at what was going on. He looked up slantingly through the branches, and saw the shadow of a huntsman pass directly over him.

Suddenly all around was hushed. The wanderers rose slowly and timidly, and looked after Hackelnberg; but he had vanished, and did not return.

“But who is the Tut-Osel?” inquired the second wanderer, after a long pause.

“In a distant nunnery in Thuringia,” replied the first, “there once lived a nun named Ursula, who, even during her lifetime, tormented all the sisterhood by her discordant voice, and oftentimes interrupted the service of the church, for which reason they called her Tut-Osel, or Tooting Ursula. If matters were bad while she lived, they became far worse when she died. At eleven o’clock every night she now thrust her head through a hole in the convent tower and tooted most miserably, and every morning at about four o’clock she joined unasked in the matin song.

“For a few days the sisterhood endured this with a beating heart, and on bended knees; but on the fourth morning, when she joined in the service, and one of the nuns whispered tremblingly to her neighbour–

“‘Ha! it is surely our Tut-Osel!’ the song ceased, the hair of the nuns stood on end, and they all rushed from the church, exclaiming–

“‘Ha! Tut-Osel! Tut-Osel!’

“Despite the penances and chastisements with which they were threatened, not one of the nuns would enter the church again until the Tut-Osel was banished from the walls of the nunnery. To effect this, one of the most celebrated exorcists of the day, a Capuchin friar, from a cloister on the banks of the Danube, was sent for; and he succeeded, by prayer and fasting, in banishing Ursel in the shape of a screech-owl to the far-distant Dummburg.

“Here she met Hackelnberg, the Wild Huntsman, and found in his wood-cry, ‘Hu! hu!’ as great delight as he did in her ‘U! hu!’ So they now always hunt together; he glad to have a spirit after his own kind, and she rejoiced in the extreme to be no longer compelled to reside within the walls of a cloister, and there listen to the echo of her own song.”

“So much for the Tut-Osel. Now tell us how it fared with the shepherd who spoke to Hackelnberg.”

“Listen to the marvellous adventure,” said the third wanderer. “A shepherd once hearing the Wild Huntsman journeying through the forest, encouraged the spirit hounds, and called out–

“‘Good sport to you, Hackelnberg.’

“Hackelnberg instantly turned round and roared out to him, in a voice like thunder–

“‘Since you have helped me to set on the hounds, you shall have part of the spoil.’

“The trembling shepherd tried to hide himself, but Hackelnberg hurled the half-consumed haunch of a horse into the shepherd’s cart with such violence that it could scarcely be removed.”

Legends of Rubezahl, or Number-Nip

Rubezahl, a mountain spirit, alternates between mischief and justice. He tricks a glazier by shattering his glass, but compensates him through an enchanted sale. He aids a peasant against a cruel lord by blocking his courtyard with an unbreakable oak and repays cheated workers with stolen wood. Rubezahl’s pranks also include transforming pigs into straw and tormenting a messenger, blending humor with moral retribution.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The narrative highlights the use of wit and deceit, as Rubezahl employs clever tricks to achieve his goals, such as transforming into a donkey to teach the miller a lesson.

Moral Lessons: Each of Rubezahl’s pranks imparts ethical teachings, emphasizing the consequences of greed, oppression, and dishonesty.

Supernatural Beings: The story revolves around Rubezahl, a supernatural entity whose interactions with humans drive the narrative and its underlying messages.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

Once upon a time a glazier who was travelling across the mountains, feeling very tired from the heavy load of glass which he was carrying, began to look about to discover a place where he might rest it. Rubezahl, who had been watching for some time, no sooner saw this than he changed himself into a little mound, which the glazier not long afterwards discovered in his way, and on which, well pleased, he proposed to seat himself. But his joy was not of long continuance, for he had not sat there many minutes before the heap vanished from under him so rapidly, that the poor glazier fell to the ground with his glass, which was by the fall smashed into a thousand pieces.

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The poor fellow arose from the ground and looked around him, but the mound of earth on which he had before seated himself was no longer visible. Then he began bitterly to lament, and to sigh with heartfelt sorrow over his untoward fate. At length he started once more on his journey. Upon this Rubezahl, assuming the appearance of a traveller, accosted him, and inquired why he so lamented, and what was the great sorrow with which he was afflicted. The glazier related to him the whole affair, how that, being weary, he had seated himself upon a mound by the wayside, how this had suddenly overthrown him, and broken to pieces his whole stock of glass, which was well worth eight dollars, and how, in short, the mound itself had suddenly disappeared. He declared that he knew not in the least how to recover his loss and bring the business to a good ending. The compassionate mountain sprite comforted him, told him who he was, and that he himself had played him the trick, and at the same time bade him be of good cheer, for his losses should be made good to him.

Upon this Rubezahl transformed himself into an ass, and directed the glazier to sell him at the mill which lay at the foot of the mountain, and to be sure to make off with the purchase-money as quickly as possible. The glazier accordingly immediately bestrode the transformed mountain sprite, and rode him down the mountain to the mill, where he offered him for sale to the miller at the price of ten dollars. The miller offered nine, and the glazier, without further haggling, took the money and went his way.

When he was gone the miller sent his newly purchased beast to the stable, and the boy who had charge of him immediately filled his rack with hay. Upon this Rubezahl exclaimed–

“I don’t eat hay. I eat nothing but roasted and boiled, and that of the best.”

The boy’s hair stood on end. He flew to his master, and related to him this wondrous tale, and he no sooner heard it than he hastened to the stable and there found nothing, for his ass and his nine dollars were alike vanished.

But the miller was rightly served, for he had cheated in his time many poor people, therefore Rubezahl punished in this manner the injustice of which he had been guilty.

* * * * *

In the year 1512 a man of noble family, who was a very tyrant and oppressor, had commanded one of his vassals or peasants to carry home with his horses and cart an oak of extraordinary magnitude, and threatened to visit him with the heaviest disgrace and punishment if he neglected to fulfil his desires. The peasant saw that it was impossible for him to execute the command of his lord, and fled to the woods with great sorrow and lamentation.

There he was accosted by Rubezahl, who appeared to him like a man, and inquired of him the cause of his so great sorrow and affliction. Upon this the peasant related to him all the circumstances of the case. When Rubezahl heard it he bade him be of good cheer and care not, but go home to his house again, as he himself would soon transport the oak, as his lord required, into his courtyard.

Scarcely had the peasant got well home again before Rubezahl took the monstrous oak-tree, with its thick and sturdy boughs, and hurled it into the courtyard of the nobleman, and with its huge stem, and its many thick branches, so choked and blocked up the entrance that no one could get either in or out. And because the oak proved harder than their iron tools, and could in no manner or wise, and with no power which they could apply to it, be hewn or cut in pieces, the nobleman was compelled to break through the walls in another part of the courtyard, and have a new doorway made, which was only done with great labour and expense.

* * * * *

Once upon a time Rubezahl made, from what materials is not known, a quantity of pigs, which he drove to the neighbouring market and sold to a peasant, with a caution that the purchaser should not drive them through any water.

Now, what happened? Why these same swine having chanced to get sadly covered with mire, what must the peasant do, but drive them to the river, which they had no sooner entered than the pigs suddenly became wisps of straw, and were carried away by the stream. The purchaser was, moreover, obliged to put up with the loss, for he could neither find his pigs again, nor could he discover the person from whom he had bought them.

* * * * *

Rubezahl once betook himself to the Hirschberg, which is in the neighbourhood of his forest haunts, and there offered his services as a woodcutter to one of the townsmen, asking for his remuneration nothing more than a bundle of wood. This the man promised him, accepting his offer, and pointed out some cart-loads, intending to give him some assistance. To this offer of help in his labours Rubezahl replied–

“No. It is quite unnecessary. All that is to be done I can very well accomplish by myself.”

Upon this his new master made a few further inquiries, asking him what sort of a hatchet he had got, for he had noticed that his supposed servant was without one.

“Oh,” said Rubezahl, “I’ll soon get a hatchet.”

Accordingly he laid hands upon his left leg, and pulled that and his foot and all off at the thigh, and with it cut, as if he had been raving mad, all the wood into small pieces of proper lengths and sizes in about a quarter of an hour, thus proving that a dismembered foot is a thousand times more effectual for such purposes than the sharpest axe.

In the meanwhile the owner (who saw plainly that mischief was intended) kept calling upon the wondrous woodcutter to desist and go about his business. Rubezahl, however, kept incessantly answering–

“No, I won’t stir from this spot until I have hewn the wood as small as I agreed to, and have got my wages for so doing.”

In the midst of such quarrelling Rubezahl finished his job, and screwed his leg on again, for while at work he had been standing on one leg, after the fashion of a stork. Then he gathered together into one bundle all he had cut, placed it on his shoulder, and started off with it towards his favourite retreat, heedless of the tears and lamentations of his master.

On this occasion Rubezahl did not appear in the character of a sportive or mischievous spirit, but as an avenger of injustice, for his employer had induced a number of poor men to bring wood to his home upon the promise of paying them wages, which, however, he had never paid them. Rubezahl laid at the door of each of these poor men as much of the wood he carried away as would repay them, and so the business was brought to a proper termination.

* * * * *

It once happened that a messenger vexed or played some trick upon Rubezahl, who thereupon revenged himself in the following manner, and so wiped out the score.

The messenger, in one of his journeys over the mountains, entered an hotel to refresh himself, and placed his spear as usual behind the door. No sooner had he done so than Rubezahl carried off the spear, transformed himself into a similar one, and took its place.

When the messenger, after taking his rest, set forth again with the spear, and had got some little way on his journey, it began slipping about every now and then in such a manner that the messenger began pitching forward into the most intolerable mire, and got himself sadly bespattered. It did this so often that at last he could not tell for the soul of him what had come to the spear, or why he kept slipping forward with it instead of seizing fast hold of the ground.

He looked at it longways and sideways, from above, from underneath, but in spite of all his attempts, no change could he discover.

After this inspection he went forward a little way, when suddenly he was once more plunged into the morass, and commenced crying–

“Woe is me! woe is me!” at his spear, which led him into such scrapes, and did nothing to release him from them. At length he got himself once more to rights, and then he turned the spear the wrong way upwards. No sooner had he done so than he was driven backwards instead of forwards, and so got into a worse plight than ever.

After this he laid the spear across his shoulder like a pikeman, since it was no use to trail it upon the earth, and in this fashion he started on. But Rubezahl continued his tricks by pressing on the messenger as though he had got a yoke on his back. He changed the spear from one shoulder to the other, until at last, from very weariness, he threw away the bewitched weapon, imagining that the Evil One must possess it, and went his way without it.

He had not proceeded above a quarter of a mile, when, looking carelessly about him, he was astounded to find his spear by his side. He was sadly frightened, and little knew what to make of it. At last he boldly ventured to lay hands upon it. He did so, and lifted it up, but he could not conceive how he should carry it. He had no desire to trail it any more on the ground, and the thought of carrying it on his shoulder made him shudder. He decided, however, to give it another trial, carrying it in his hand. Fresh troubles now arose. The spear weighed so heavy that he could not stir it a foot from the spot, and though he tried first one hand and then another, all his efforts were in vain.

At last he bethought him of riding upon the spear, as a child bestrides a stick. A wonderful change now came over the weapon. It ran on as though it had been a fleet horse, and thus mounted the messenger rode on without ceasing until he descended the mountain and came into the city, where he excited the wonder, delight, and laughter of the worthy burghers.

Although he had endured some trouble in the early part of his journey, the messenger thought he had been amply compensated at the close, and he comforted himself by making up his mind that in all future journeys he was destined to perform he would bestride his nimble spear. His good intentions were, however, frustrated. Rubezahl had played his game, and had had all the amusement he desired with the poor knave. Accordingly he scampered away, leaving in his place the real spear, which never played any more tricks, but, after the old fashion of other spears, accompanied its master in a becoming and orderly style.

* * * * *

A poor woman, who got her living by gathering herbs, once went, accompanied by her two children, to the mountains, carrying with her a basket in which to gather the plants, which she was in the habit of disposing of to the apothecaries. Having chanced to discover a large tract of land covered with such plants as were most esteemed, she busied herself so in filling her basket that she lost her way, and was troubled to find out how to get back to the path from which she had wandered. On a sudden a man dressed like a peasant appeared before her, and said–

“Well, good woman, what is it you are looking for so anxiously? and where do you want to go?”

“Alas!” replied she, “I am a poor woman who has neither bit nor sup, for which reason I am obliged to wander to gather herbs, so that I may buy bread for myself and my hungry children. I have lost my way, and cannot find it. I pray you, good man, take pity on me, and lead me out of the thicket into the right path, so that I may make the best of my way home.”

“Well, my good woman,” replied Rubezahl, for it was he, “make yourself happy. I will show you the way. But what good are those roots to you? They will be of little benefit. Throw away this rubbish, and gather from this tree as many leaves as will fill your basket; you will find them answer your purpose much better.”

“Alas!” said the woman, “who would give a penny for them? They are but common leaves, and good for nothing.”

“Be advised, my good woman,” said Rubezahl; “throw away those you have got, and follow me.”

He repeated his injunction over and over again in vain, until he got tired, for the woman would not be persuaded. At last, he fairly laid hold of the basket, threw the herbs out by main force, and supplied their place with leaves from the surrounding bushes. When he had finished, he told the woman to go home, and led her into the right path.

The woman, with her children and her basket, journeyed on some distance; but they had not gone far before she saw some valuable herbs growing by the wayside. No sooner did she perceive them than she longed to gather them, for she hoped that she should obtain something for them, while the leaves with which her basket was crammed were, she thought, good for nothing. She accordingly emptied her basket, throwing away the rubbish, as she esteemed it, and having filled it once more with roots, journeyed on to her dwelling at Kirschdorf.

As soon as she arrived at her home she cleansed the roots she had gathered from the earth which clung around them, tied them neatly together, and emptied everything out of the basket. Upon doing this, something glittering caught her eye, and she commenced to make a careful examination of the basket. She was surprised to discover several ducats sticking to the wickerwork, and these were clearly such of the leaves as remained of those which she had so thoughtlessly thrown away on the mountains.

She rejoiced at having preserved what she had, but she was again sorely vexed that she had not taken care of all that the mountain spirit had gathered for her. She hastened back to the spot where she had emptied the basket, in hopes of finding some of the leaves there; but her search was in vain–they had all vanished.

The Conclave of Corpses

A curious monk of Kreutzberg convent explores the cemetery at night, encountering a horrifying vision: undead monks and victims of their sins, suffering eternal torment. He learns their punishment stems from past atrocities, their hearts engulfed in unconsuming flames. Shaken, the monk prays, regains faith, and abandons skepticism. Transforming his life, he dedicates himself to the Church, dying in sanctity, his body preserved in the crypt.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Supernatural Beings: The monk encounters undead monks and tormented souls, representing interactions with spirits.

Divine Punishment: The eternal suffering of the undead monks is a consequence of their past sins, illustrating retribution from higher powers.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons on the dangers of skepticism and the importance of faith and piety.

From the German lore

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Some three hundred years since, when the convent of Kreutzberg was in its glory, one of the monks who dwelt therein, wishing to ascertain something of the hereafter of those whose bodies lay all undecayed in the cemetery, visited it alone in the dead of night for the purpose of prosecuting his inquiries on that fearful subject. As he opened the trap-door of the vault a light burst from below; but deeming it to be only the lamp of the sacristan, the monk drew back and awaited his departure concealed behind the high altar. The sacristan emerged not, however, from the opening; and the monk, tired of waiting, approached, and finally descended the rugged steps which led into the dreary depths.

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No sooner had he set foot on the lowermost stair, than the well-known scene underwent a complete transformation in his eyes. He had long been accustomed to visit the vault, and whenever the sacristan went thither, he was almost sure to be with him. He therefore knew every part of it as well as he did the interior of his own narrow cell, and the arrangement of its contents was perfectly familiar to his eyes. What, then, was his horror to perceive that this arrangement, which even but that morning had come under his observation as usual, was altogether altered, and a new and wonderful one substituted in its stead.

A dim lurid light pervaded the desolate abode of darkness, and it just sufficed to give to his view a sight of the most singular description.

On each side of him the dead but imperishable bodies of the long-buried brothers of the convent sat erect in their lidless coffins, their cold, starry eyes glaring at him with lifeless rigidity, their withered fingers locked together on their breasts, their stiffened limbs motionless and still. It was a sight to petrify the stoutest heart; and the monk’s quailed before it, though he was a philosopher, and a sceptic to boot. At the upper end of the vault, at a rude table formed of a decayed coffin, or something which once served the same purpose, sat three monks. They were the oldest corses in the charnel-house, for the inquisitive brother knew their faces well; and the cadaverous hue of their cheeks seemed still more cadaverous in the dim light shed upon them, while their hollow eyes gave forth what looked to him like flashes of flame. A large book lay open before one of them, and the others bent over the rotten table as if in intense pain, or in deep and fixed attention. No word was said; no sound was heard; the vault was as silent as the grave, its awful tenants still as statues.

Fain would the curious monk have receded from this horrible place; fain would he have retraced his steps and sought again his cell; fain would he have shut his eyes to the fearful scene; but he could not stir from the spot, he felt rooted there; and though he once succeeded in turning his eyes to the entrance of the vault, to his infinite surprise and dismay he could not discover where it lay, nor perceive any possible means of exit. He stood thus for some time. At length the aged monk at the table beckoned him to advance. With slow tottering steps he made his way to the group, and at length stood in front of the table, while the other monks raised their heads and glanced at him with a fixed, lifeless look that froze the current of his blood. He knew not what to do; his senses were fast forsaking him; Heaven seemed to have deserted him for his incredulity. In this moment of doubt and fear he bethought him of a prayer, and as he proceeded he felt himself becoming possessed of a confidence he had before unknown. He looked on the book before him. It was a large volume, bound in black, and clasped with bands of gold, with fastenings of the same metal. It was inscribed at the top of each page

“Liber Obedientiæ.”

He could read no further. He then looked, first in the eyes of him before whom it lay open, and then in those of his fellows. He finally glanced around the vault on the corpses who filled every visible coffin in its dark and spacious womb. Speech came to him, and resolution to use it. He addressed himself to the awful beings in whose presence he stood, in the words of one having authority with them.

“Pax vobis,” ’twas thus he spake–“Peace be to ye.”

“Hic nulla pax,” replied an aged monk, in a hollow, tremulous tone, baring his breast the while–“Here is no peace.”

He pointed to his bosom as he spoke, and the monk, casting his eye upon it, beheld his heart within surrounded by living fire, which seemed to feed on it but not consume it. He turned away in affright, but ceased not to prosecute his inquiries.

“Pax vobis, in nomine Domini,” he spake again–“Peace be to ye, in the name of the Lord.”

“Hic non pax,” the hollow and heartrending tones of the ancient monk who sat at the right of the table were heard to answer.

On glancing at the bared bosom of this hapless being also the same sight was exhibited–the heart surrounded by a devouring flame, but still remaining fresh and unconsumed under its operation. Once more the monk turned away and addressed the aged man in the centre.

“Pax vobis, in nomine Domini,” he proceeded.

At these words the being to whom they were addressed raised his head, put forward his hand, and closing the book with a loud clap, said–

“Speak on. It is yours to ask, and mine to answer.”

The monk felt reassured, and his courage rose with the occasion.

“Who are ye?” he inquired; “who may ye be?”

“We know not!” was the answer, “alas! we know not!”

“We know not, we know not!” echoed in melancholy tones the denizens of the vault.

“What do ye here?” pursued the querist.

“We await the last day, the day of the last judgment! Alas for us! woe! woe!”

“Woe! woe!” resounded on all sides.

The monk was appalled, but still he proceeded.

“What did ye to deserve such doom as this? What may your crime be that deserves such dole and sorrow?”

As he asked the question the earth shook under him, and a crowd of skeletons uprose from a range of graves which yawned suddenly at his feet.

“These are our victims,” answered the old monk. “They suffered at our hands. We suffer now, while they are at peace; and we shall suffer.”

“For how long?” asked the monk.

“For ever and ever!” was the answer.

“For ever and ever, for ever and ever!” died along the vault.

“May God have mercy on us!” was all the monk could exclaim.

The skeletons vanished, the graves closing over them. The aged men disappeared from his view, the bodies fell back in their coffins, the light fled, and the den of death was once more enveloped in its usual darkness.

On the monk’s revival he found himself lying at the foot of the altar. The grey dawn of a spring morning was visible, and he was fain to retire to his cell as secretly as he could, for fear he should be discovered.

From thenceforth he eschewed vain philosophy, says the legend, and, devoting his time to the pursuit of true knowledge, and the extension of the power, greatness, and glory of the Church, died in the odour of sanctity, and was buried in that holy vault, where his body is still visible.

Requiescat in pace!

The Elves

Count Hermann von Rosenberg marries Princess Catherine, celebrating with a grand festival. That night, he encounters a procession of tiny, earth-dwelling spirits who request permission to celebrate their own bridal festivities, promising loyalty in return. Over time, the elves bring blessings and omens of gold, but tragedy strikes as Hermann loses his wife and son during childbirth. Heartbroken, Hermann soon dies, ending the Rosenberg lineage.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Supernatural Beings: The narrative features earth-dwelling spirits—elves—who interact with Count Hermann, influencing his household and bringing both blessings and omens.

Divine Intervention: The elves, acting as guardian spirits, intervene in Hermann’s life, offering protection and services in exchange for permission to celebrate their own festivities.

Sacred Spaces: The castle serves as a sacred space where the elves have long resided, watching over Hermann’s ancestors and maintaining the welfare of his house.

From the German lore

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The happy day at length arrived on which Count Hermann von Rosenberg was married to his beloved Catherine, a princess of the house of Gonzaca. The event was celebrated by a magnificent banquet and festival, and it was late before the Count and Countess could leave their guests. The young Countess was already asleep, and Hermann was sinking into a slumber, when he was aroused by hearing the sounds of soft and gentle music, and, the door of his apartment flying open, a joyous bridal procession entered the room. The figures engaged in this extraordinary scene were not more than two or three spans high. The bride and bridegroom were in the centre of the procession, and the musicians preceded it.

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Hermann rose up in bed, and demanded what brought them there, and why they had aroused him, whereupon one of the company stepped up to him, and said–

“We are attendant spirits of that peaceful class who dwell in the earth. We have dwelt for many years beneath this thy birthplace, and have ever watched over thy dwelling to preserve it from misfortune. Already have we taken good care of the ashes of your forefathers that they should not fall into the power of hostile and evil spirits, and as faithful servants we watch over the welfare of your house. Since thou hast this day been married for the continuance of thy name and ancient race, we have represented to you this bridal ceremony, in hopes that you will grant us full permission to keep and celebrate this joyous festival, in return for which we promise to serve you and your house with the greatest readiness.”

“Very well,” said Hermann, laughing; “make yourselves as merry in my castle as you please.”

They thanked him, and took their departure. Hermann could not, however, banish from his mind this remarkable scene, and it was daybreak before he fell asleep. In the morning his thoughts were still occupied with it, yet he never mentioned one word of the occurrence to his wife.

In the course of time the Countess presented him with a daughter. Scarcely had Hermann received intelligence of this event before a very diminutive old crone entered the apartment and informed him that the elfin bride, whom he had seen in the miniature procession on the night of his nuptials, had given birth to a daughter. Hermann was very friendly to the visitor, wished all happiness to the mother and child, and the old woman took her departure. The Count did not, however, mention this visit to his wife.

A year afterwards, on the approach of her second confinement, the Countess saw the elves on the occasion of her husband receiving another of their unexpected visits. The little people entered the chamber in a long procession in black dresses, carrying lights in their hands, and the little women were clothed in white. One of these stood before the Count holding up her apron, while an old man thus addressed her–

“No more, dear Hermann, can we find a resting-place in your castle. We must wander abroad. We are come to take our departure from you.”

“Wherefore will you leave my castle?” inquired Hermann. “Have I offended you?”

“No, thou hast not; but we must go, for she whom you saw as a bride on your wedding-night lost, last evening, her life in giving birth to an heir, who likewise perished. As a proof that we are thankful for the kindness you have always shown us, take a trifling proof of our power.”

When the old man had thus spoken, he placed a little ladder against the bed, which the old woman who had stood by ascended. Then she opened her apron, held it before Hermann, and said–

“Grasp and take.”

He hesitated. She repeated what she had said. At last he did what she told him, took out of her apron what he supposed to be a handful of sand, and laid it in a basin which stood upon a table by his bedside. The little woman desired him to take another handful, and he did once more as she bade him. Thereupon the woman descended the ladder; and the procession, weeping and lamenting, departed from the chamber.

When day broke, Hermann saw that the supposed sand which he had taken from the apron of the little woman was nothing less than pure and beautiful grains of gold.

But what happened? On that very day he lost his Countess in childbirth, and his new-born son. Hermann mourned her loss so bitterly that he was very soon laid beside her in the grave. With him perished the house of Rosenberg.

The Jew in the Bush

A servant works unpaid for three years and finally receives three crowns, which he gives to a dwarf in exchange for three magical wishes. Gaining a bow, a fiddle, and the power to compel others, he uses these gifts to outwit a deceitful Jew and escape execution. The Jew’s greed and misdeeds lead to his downfall, while the servant triumphs.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Trickster: The servant uses cunning and magical items to outsmart others, particularly the deceitful Jew.

Supernatural Beings: The dwarf who grants the servant three magical wishes represents the involvement of supernatural entities influencing mortal affairs.

Revenge and Justice: The servant’s actions lead to the downfall of the greedy Jew, serving as a form of retribution and restoration of moral order.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

A faithful servant had worked hard for his master, a thrifty farmer, for three long years, and had been paid no wages. At last it came into the man’s head that he would not go on thus any longer, so he went to his master and said: “I have worked hard for you a long time, and without pay, too. I will trust you to give me what I ought to have for my trouble, but something I must have, and then I must take a holiday.”

The farmer was a sad miser, and knew that his man was simple-hearted, so he took out three crowns, and thus gave him a crown for each year’s service.

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The poor fellow thought it was a great deal of money to have, and said to himself–

“Why should I work hard and live here on bad fare any longer? Now that I am rich I can travel into the wide world and make myself merry.”

With that he put the money into his purse, and set out, roaming over hill and valley. As he jogged along over the fields, singing and dancing, a little dwarf met him, and asked him what made him so merry.

“Why, what should make me down-hearted?” replied he. “I am sound in health and rich in purse; what should I care for? I have saved up my three years’ earnings, and have it all safe in my pocket.”

“How much may it come to?” said the mannikin.

“Three whole crowns,” replied the countryman.

“I wish you would give them to me,” said the other. “I am very poor.”

Then the good man pitied him, and gave him all he had; and the dwarf said–

“As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes–one for each crown,–so choose whatever you like.”

The countryman rejoiced at his luck, and said–

“I like many things better than money. First, I will have a bow that will bring me down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set every one dancing that hears me play upon it; and, thirdly, I should like to be able to make every one grant me whatever I ask.”

The dwarf said he should have his three wishes, gave him the bow and the fiddle, and went his way.

Our honest friend journeyed on his way too, and if he was merry before, he was now ten times more so. He had not gone far before he met an old Jew. Close by them stood a tree, and on the topmost twig sat a thrush, singing away most joyfully.

“Oh what a pretty bird!” said the Jew. “I would give a great deal of my money to have such a one.”

“If that’s all,” said the countryman, “I will soon bring it down.”

He took up his bow, off went his arrow, and down fell the thrush into a bush that grew at the foot of the tree. The Jew, when he saw that he could have the bird, thought he would cheat the man, so he put his money into his pocket again, and crept into the bush to find the prize. As soon as he had got into the middle, his companion took up his fiddle and played away, and the Jew began to dance and spring about, capering higher and higher in the air. The thorns soon began to tear his clothes, till they all hung in rags about him, and he himself was all scratched and wounded, so that the blood ran down.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” cried the Jew. “Mercy, mercy, master! Pray stop the fiddle! What have I done to be treated in this way?”

“What hast thou done? Why, thou hast shaved many a poor soul close enough,” said the other. “Thou art only meeting thy reward;” and he played up another tune yet merrier than the first.

Then the Jew began to beg and pray, and at last he said he would give plenty of his money to be set free. He did not, however, come up to the musician’s price for some time, so he danced him along brisker and brisker. The higher the Jew danced, the higher he bid, till at last he offered a round hundred crowns that he had in his purse, and had just gained by cheating some poor fellow. When the countryman saw so much money, he said–

“I agree to the bargain,” and, taking the purse and putting up his fiddle, he travelled on well pleased.

Meanwhile the Jew crept out of the bush, half naked, and in a piteous plight, and began to ponder how he should take his revenge and serve his late companion some trick. At length he went to a judge, and said that a rascal had robbed him of his money, and beaten him soundly into the bargain, and that this fellow carried a bow at his back, and had a fiddle hanging round his neck. The judge sent out his bailiffs to bring up the man whenever they should find him. The countryman was soon caught, and brought up to be tried.

The Jew began his tale, and said he had been robbed of his money.

“Robbed, indeed!” said the countryman; “why, you gave it me for playing you a tune, and teaching you to dance.”

The judge said that was not likely; that the Jew, he was sure, knew better what to do with his money; and he cut the matter short by sending the countryman off to the gallows.

Away he was taken, but as he stood at the foot of the ladder, he said–

“My Lord Judge, may it please your worship to grant me but one boon?”

“Anything but thy life,” replied the other.

“No,” said he; “I do not ask my life. Only let me play upon my fiddle for the last time.”

The Jew cried out–

“Oh, no! no! no! for heaven’s sake don’t listen to him! don’t listen to him!”

But the judge said–

“It is only for this once, poor fellow! He will soon have done.”

The fact was he could not say no, because the dwarf’s third gift enabled the countryman to make every one grant whatever he asked.

Then the Jew said–

“Bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity’s sake!”

The countryman seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune, and at the first note judge, clerks, and jailer were set agoing. All began capering, and no one could hold the Jew. At the second note the hangman let his prisoner go and danced also, and by the time the first bar of the tune was played all were dancing together–judge, court, Jew, and all the people who had followed to look on. At first the thing went merrily and joyously enough, but when it had gone on a while, and there seemed to be no end of either playing or dancing, all began to cry out and beg the countryman to leave off. He stopped, however, not a whit the more for their begging, till the judge not only gave him his life, but paid him back the hundred crowns.

Then the countryman called the Jew, and said–

“Tell us now, you rogue, where you got that gold, or I shall play on for your amusement only.”

“I stole it,” replied the Jew, before all the people. “I acknowledge that I stole it, and that you earned it fairly.”

Then the countryman stopped his fiddling, and left the Jew to take his place at the gallows.

Fastrada

In a legend tied to Charlemagne, a serpent sought the emperor’s justice for its stolen nest, leading to a magical ring of attraction given to his wife, Fastrada. Upon her death, the talisman caused Charlemagne’s obsessive grief until Archbishop Turpin removed it. The ring was discarded in a lake, transferring the emperor’s affection to Aix-la-Chapelle, where he chose to be buried, sealing his enduring legacy there.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Supernatural Beings: The serpent seeking justice introduces a mystical element, highlighting interactions between humans and otherworldly creatures.

Sacred Objects: The diamond bestowed upon Charlemagne, set into a ring, serves as a talisman with the power to evoke intense love, underscoring the significance of enchanted artifacts in the narrative.

Illusion vs. Reality: The artificial love induced by the ring blurs the line between genuine emotion and enchantment, prompting questions about the authenticity of feelings manipulated by magical forces.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

By the side of the “Beautiful Doorway,” leading into the cloisters of the cathedral at Mainz, stands, worked into the wall, a fragment of the tomb of Fastrada, the fourth wife of the mighty monarch Charlemagne according to some authorities, the third according to others. Fastrada figures in the following tradition related by the author of the Rhyming Chronicle.

When the Kaiser, Karl, abode at Zurich, he dwelt in a house called “The Hole,” in front of which he caused a pillar to be erected with a bell on the top of it, to the end that whoever demanded justice should have the means of announcing himself.

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One day, as he sat at dinner in his house, he heard the bell ring, and sent out his servants to bring the claimant before him; but they could find no one. A second and a third time the bell rang, but no human being was still to be seen. At length the Kaiser himself went forth, and he found a large serpent, which had twined itself round the shaft of the pillar, and was then in the very act of pulling the bell rope.

“This is God’s will,” said the monarch. “Let the brute be brought before me. I may deny justice to none of God’s creatures–man or beast.”

The serpent was accordingly ushered into the imperial presence; and the Kaiser spoke to it as he would to one of his own kind, gravely asking what it required. The reptile made a most courteous reverence to Charlemagne, and signed in its dumb way for him to follow. He did so accordingly, accompanied by his court; and the creature led them on to the water’s edge, to the shores of the lake, where it had its nest. Arrived there, the Kaiser soon saw the cause of the serpent’s seeking him, for its nest, which was full of eggs, was occupied by a hideous toad of monstrous proportions.

“Let the toad be flung into the fire,” said the monarch solemnly, “and let the serpent have possession of its nest restored to it.”

This sentence was carried at once into execution. The toad was burnt, and the serpent placed in possession. Charlemagne and his court then returned to the palace.

Three days afterwards, as the Kaiser again sat at dinner, he was surprised at the appearance of the serpent, which this time glided into the hall unnoticed and unannounced.

“What does this mean?” thought the king.

The reptile approached the table, and raising itself on its tail, dropped from its mouth, into an empty plate which stood beside the monarch, a precious diamond. Then, again abasing itself before him, the crawling creature glided out of the hall as it had entered, and was speedily lost to view. This diamond the monarch caused to be set in a costly chased ring of the richest gold; and he then presented the trinket to his fair wife, the much-beloved Fastrada.

Now this stone had the virtue of attraction, and whoso received it from another, so long as they wore it, received also the intensest love of that individual. It was thus with Fastrada, for no sooner did she place the ring on her finger than the attachment of Charlemagne, great before, no longer knew any bounds. In fact his love was more like madness than any sane passion. But though this talisman had full power over love, it had no power over death; and the mighty monarch was soon to experience that nothing may avert the fiat of destiny.

Charlemagne and his beloved bride returned to Germany, and, at Ingelheim palace, Fastrada died. The Kaiser was inconsolable. He would not listen to the voice of friendship, and he sorrowed in silence over the dead body of his once beautiful bride. Even when decay had commenced, when the remains, late so lovely, were now loathsome to look on, he could not be induced to leave the corpse for a moment, or to quit the chamber of death in which it lay. The court were all astounded. They knew not what to make of the matter. At length Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, approached the corpse, and being made aware of the cause, by some supernatural communication contrived to engage the emperor’s attention while he removed the charm. The magic ring was found by him in the mouth of the dead empress, concealed beneath her tongue.

Immediately that the talisman was removed the spell was broken, and Charlemagne now looked on the putrid corpse with all the natural horror and loathing of an ordinary man. He gave orders for its immediate interment, which were at once carried into execution, and he then departed from Ingelheim for the forest of the Ardennes. Arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle, he took up his abode in the ancient castle of Frankenstein, close by that famous city. The esteem, however, that he had felt for Fastrada was now transferred to the possessor of the ring, Archbishop Turpin; and the pious ecclesiastic was so persecuted by the emperor’s affection that he finally cast the talisman into the lake which surrounds the castle.

An immediate transference of the royal liking took place, and the monarch, thenceforth and for ever after during his lifetime, loved Aix-la-Chapelle as a man might love his wife. So much did he become attached to it, that he directed that he should be buried there; and there accordingly his remains rest unto this day.